


Addictions

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drabbley thingy, Drug Abuse, M/M, Mentions of non-con, Post-Reichenbach, Sebastian Moran -First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s funny, how badly you can miss someone so utterly awful for you.  James Moriarty was the devil himself, but oh, did I love him. No matter how much I hated him, I always loved him in the end. He could cut me, carve his name into my chest, and I’d adore him for it. Worship at his feet. Beg for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addictions

**Author's Note:**

> Super depressing Post-Reichenbach mormor feels because I can't write anything happy. Have fun!

It’s funny, how badly you can miss someone so utterly awful for you. James Moriarty was the devil himself, but oh, did I love him. No matter how much I hated him, I always loved him in the end. He could cut me, carve his name into my chest, and I’d adore him for it. Worship at his feet. Beg for more.

I could’ve killed him easily, I didn’t have to obey him, listen to his every command and bow to his every whim. But I did. I loved it, loved being his slave, his property. He loved me too, in his own twisted way. He loved me in razor blades and gunshots. He loved me like a drug loves an addict, and I loved him like an addict loves their drugs.

In the end, I was more a slave before he found me than any time after. And the moment I heard that gunshot, the moment I dropped my rifle like it was a piece of trash and bolted across to that hospital, I was no longer free anymore. I felt those chains drop back on me with enough force to stop my breathing, the moment I saw him lying in a pool of darkening crimson.

I cried that day. Sebastian Moran, crack shot, sniper for the devil himself, sat down in a pool of his boss’ blood and cradled his lifeless body to his chest and sobbed. I never stopped crying, even when the tears stopped streaking down my face and the cleanup crew came in to get his body. Even when I raged, coated in his drying blood, and snapped one of the medical guys neck clean in half for trying to get at Jim, my Jim, who was dead and it was somehow my fault, I was still crying. I was empty. I could feel it in my very soul, a soul I’d sold to the man lying dead at my feet. It was like a pit, a deep, black hole that was swallowing me up bit by bloody bit.

I went home. Our home. Empty. I couldn’t bear to see everything the way he’d left it, his extra suit coat folded neatly over the back of his chair, his tea cup on the coffee table where he’d left it that morning. I lost it. I broke. Somehow seeing that house, that empty ghost of our former lives, was worse than holding his bloody, cold body to my chest until it was pried away from me. I collapsed in the doorway and screamed, yelling and cursing until I was hoarse and had no more energy left in me.

I went to the kitchen where he kept his over-priced wines, I popped open the most expensive one and chugged it like a man in the desert would chug water. When I was done with that one I smashed the bottle on the floor and grabbed the next one. I woke up what might’ve been the next day with the remains of four empty bottles shattered around me, my hands and chest bloodied, and a half-empty one in my left hand. I’d carved his initials into my wrist.

I drug myself into his room, curling up under his blanket and inhaling the smell of him. I wanted to stay there, bleeding all over his sheets and sobbing, until I finally just gave up and died alongside him. I must’ve passed out again because when I woke up I thought he was in bed beside me. When I remembered he was gone I vomited. Bent over the side of the bed and retched right there on his precious cherrywood floor.

I went out and found myself a distraction. I couldn’t bear to even look at my guns. They just brought back flashbacks. I found a shifty looking man with greasy black hair and a cheshire smile. If he’d been cleaner he could’ve been Jim. But no, no he couldn’t. Not ever. He was dirty and unsophisticated and not nearly as clever. He was wrong but he had what I needed. I let him use me and then jam a dirty needle into my arm. I felt alright for a while after that. When it wore off I woke up in an alley with my pants round my ankles. I vomited again. I curled up in a ball, yanked up my trousers, and sobbed. Eventually I drug myself home. It hurt. Everything. Hurt.

Three years passed and I must’ve lost half my body weight. I didn’t bother washing my clothes. Ate when I was about to pass out. Mostly I stayed high or drunk. I had several new scars and many bruises. Some fresher than others. Hollows under my eyes. Looked worse than when Jim found me the first time.

I saw a newspaper. Sherlock Holmes. Returned. Name cleared. My head spun, I saw red. How dare he? How fucking dare he come back when Jim can’t? Jim died for him and he didn’t have the /decency/ to go through with it. I hated him more than I’d ever hated anything.

Gunshot. Watson falls. Blood. Ohh, and the screams. The yells of anguish and worry and utter /despair/ from that /detective/. ‘John?! John oh god I’m sorry. I’ll fix it. No. No. Dammit, no. Not now. Not when I just-’ and oh, it was music. I felt alive. I’d destroyed Sherlock the way he’d destroyed me.

He fell fast. Stopped eating entirely. Cut ties with everyone. Stopped shaving or leaving the house. Hid in his room mostly. Then I saw him making a call. My phone went off. He wanted drugs. I supplied him with them gladly. Seven percent solution and he was high as a kite. Watched him fall. I supplied him steadily. He was using more than I ever had and it had only been a month. I’d stopped using. Watching him crumble was my new addiction.

When he died I would follow, so I drug out the process as long as I could. Watched him suffer, watched him beg me for more, saying his brother had cut his funding and he would do anything for more. More cocaine. Need it. Please. Anything. He was damn good at paying then. I think he liked it. I did. Loved watching the tears slide down those ever-more-prominent cheekbones. Tears of guilt. Of utter misery and loss. He was dead and he knew it. I helped him shoot up. Could see every bone in his body. Going fast.

I wanted to watch him go. I came into his flat. He didn’t even look surprised. He lay back on his bed in a very dirty blue dressing gown. Bloodstains on the sleeves. I made him strip all but his pants. He nodded stiffly and did so. Scars, scabs, lines and lines of cuts and bruises covering him. He looked like a living cadaver. He was weak, kept looking over my left shoulder. I asked what he was looking at. He said he saw Jim there. He said he was smiling at us. I wanted to die again. Soon. Soon.

I took his wrist, showed him the syringe. He nodded and there was knowledge in his eyes. He knew it would kill him this time. That I’d given him much too much. Needlepoint. Thin, pale skin. Punctured, small drop of blood almost as thin as water. Depress the plunger. Eyes flutter shut. No, I say. Not yet. Look at me.

I use the other syringe. He watches with a sort of foggy interest. I depress the plunger and feel the rush. My heart is going too fast and I know his is too. I lie next to him and cradle his head to my chest. I’m scared and he is too. I see Jim, smiling at me. It goes blurry, I feel his breath hitch. Blackness and a voice are the last of it. /See you soon, Tiger./


End file.
